


MEDITATIONS

by spicyshimmy



Series: Dragon Wars [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:43:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/pseuds/spicyshimmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of a series of vignettes for a Dragon Age/Star Wars AU, written for Kassafrassa on tumblr, with whom the concept was developed. Fenris, Anders and Hawke each have their meditations. <i>This is not meditation as such, though there is peace in it.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	MEDITATIONS

I. Fenris  
He does not experience the cold as such—nor its opposite, the sand that gusts from hot winds and far-off dunes, trawling its uncomfortable way into every corner, even those overtaken already by shadow.

Hawke’s robes are the same color as that sand, twisted by the same winds twisting that sand. There is sand in his beard, though he smoothes it away with one cracked thumb, and it is of too much importance that he watches the skies instead of the ground, that shifting haze above them as light sets and four moons shimmer, always separate, in shades of eclipsing red.

This is not meditation as such, though there is peace in it.

Hawke squints to see what is before him as well as what has already been lost, somewhere in the past—which is not always behind.

Fenris does not interrupt.

II. Anders  
He’s never been a _master_ of meditation for reasons all too obvious, most of them to do with the pun in the first place, a preference for quick jokes and quicker smiles. If you chuckle at a thing yourself at least—by very definition— _someone_ is laughing.

There’s a fallacy in that, a loneliness, a quiet that isn’t calm—a silence that the laughter doesn’t pierce. Some nights Anders hears his old master’s voice less as the sum of its wisdom and so little to do with the Force.

A personal recollection, not a general one, which—again—makes meditation difficult.

He didn’t smile often, but it made its mark whenever he did, fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and an ease of posture Anders never caught.

Careless, foolish, so much younger—and in some ways more wise than he’s ever been, knees drawn to his chest and fingers locked against them, watching the wind burrow like little caresses through the sand.

‘Right,’ he says, one voice seeking another without answer. He sits on his bed rather than the floor and sweeps from his thoughts all stubborn memory, the same as a rock scoured clean by the heat of twin suns.

III. Hawke  
He knows his father is with him, a voice carried through him on the wind. In times of need, Hawke can hear him laughing.

He laughs the same way, though it comes from somewhere deeper than his throat, lodged like sand in his lungs—and he can’t remember when his voice changed, some forgotten summer full of sore practice and corrected stances and muscle memory, only that it _did_.

It’s not all he carries with him. He has his father’s form and his father’s lightsaber, the latter slapping his thigh with every step. When he takes it against his palm it’s like a handshake. When he takes it against his palm, it fits.

There’s a bruise on his leg from all that travel, but it’s something they all carry with them, something to leave its mark even if it doesn’t always hurt.

Not necessarily.

Hawke folds his arms over his chest and into his sleeves before he realizes the familiarity of it all, and clears his throat, putting his hands against his hips instead.


End file.
